A Blend of White and Red
by SweetVerses
Summary: "The shining white of her back was, like his, slashed across with savage wounds." LietBela. Semi-Historical.
1. One

_LithuaniaXBelarus or TorisXNatalia. My OTP! Please note that I'm an AP English student, and I use fanfics (though I've only written a few) to practice my creative writing skills. So if you notice a literary device of some kind, it may not be coincidental :D But don't expect anything from me…_

_Story By SweetVerses (Naitengale)_

_Disclaimer: If I owned Axis Powers Hetalia...this story wouldn't be on fanfiction freakin' dot net, would it?_

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~ One ~

Toris Laurinaitis and Natalia Arlovskaya are seeing red, in different meanings of the idiom.

The brown-haired Lithuanian can feel the hot blood rushing to his face when her platinum blonde hair flutters past him. In the disoriented moment, he can see the faint pinkish-red light fall across her, and in a bough of wishful thinking he often believes there is a soft peach hue blooming along her ghostly-white cheekbones. There is always, without fail, a similar color making its way just below his glimmering eyes.

The young White Russian woman glazes over everyone she sees with an icy stare, much like the precarious icicles dangling from her roof, ready to take a victim. She hardly knows a warm color; the passionate glow of flame has never flickered in her lavender eyes, and for many years she believed the blood swimming in her veins was the dark blue of a winter sky. It was only when she merged with the other Soviets that she began to feel the uncontrollable, evil flame for that man welling inside her core, scalding her heart. Her brother, her protector, her only "friend" had allies more important than her. With her pride crushed, and her heart melted into a slimy paste, she would march past her brother's favorite "friend", that pathetic excuse for a man, and see him violently washed in the steaming red fire behind her eyes. The red of Hell's volcanoes burst into thoughts of torturing him, stabbing him, evil thoughts that crowded out the icy wasteland her mind once was. She seemed externally to be a quiet, perhaps shy girl with a sweet blue dress and a white bow in her crème-colored hair. When she passed him, however, the searing blaze erupted inside of her again, and she was enraged with the poor man for being her brother's favorite. She saw the blood pouring out of him as she sliced his disgusting skin apart like paper; she saw red.

Toris works a 24-hour-shift at the Soviet house; midnight to midnight every day, even Sundays, he cleans, he cooks, he does the menial tasks that would have brought him such shame in the days of his power. When he is finished his tasks – which was rare, considering the enormous size of the mansion – he sleeps an hour or two at a time. He is awake at midnight every night, the only conscious one in a lonely house. The daydreams that filled the air during that Cinderella hour were nearly palpable, and you could taste the sadness, the loneliness; if you concentrated, it is possible you might sense the silky white of Miss Natalia's hair swaying as she touched her imagined lips to his. He often sat at the table with his tea and drank her image into himself.

It was storming one night, the wind and snow pounding at the enormous glass windows, nearly chipping them. Toris barely noticed it as he poured his tea and added a swish of crème. During the day, he took his tea black, but when the grey sun disappeared and everyone in the house shifted to their rooms, he needed something sweeter to brave the silence. The sweetened milk flowed into his teacup and he thought of her swinging hair, just then realizing that he didn't even really like his tea with crème. He really just wanted to watch the liquid splendor cascade like silky blanched locks falling across a bedspread and have another reason to dream again…

He heard an icy whisper from the grand staircase in an instant that threw him off guard.

Toris thought, mixing reality with his thoughts, that he recognized the sweet sound. He shivered with anxiety and crept to the edge of the kitchen entryway, peering into the desolate darkness. The scarlet halo of candlelight tinted the young woman's thin white nightgown and her harrowing face a dusky pink. Toris squinted into the dreamlike scene to find if it was real, and discovered that the tears gathering in her eyes were also dyed a shade of red.

Toris inhaled sharply at the sight of his love's sullen eyes, and at the sound of his breath, Natalia turned and glared at him with embarrassed fury. They were frozen there, staring at each other with wrath in one face and surprise at being caught in the other. The seconds passed without making their presence know, until Natalia could not hold it in any longer. She hardly stifled her deep sob as she turned away from Toris and the candlelight and let the tears fall from her lavender irises as quietly as possibly. The Lithuanian, forgetting his shyness at witnessing the girl in such pain, ran to her and knelt on the step below her. Her sparkling hands swatted him away, but he understood, and sat there examining her haunting beauty. Behind her closed eyes the red was burning again, the hatred for letting her brother disregard her like an old toy. Ivan left her cold and alone; she was so vulnerable without her brother. She was broken.

After minutes of violent, restrained sobbing, Natalia grew weary and began the slow descent into serenity, still letting the tears drip off her delicate chin. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the worried face of the man sitting in front of her, his eyebrows tilted in empathetic concern. She was tired and sleepy, and was nearly nodding off when she slowly lifted both her arms out to Toris. He looked surprised and started trembling in embarrassment. But Natalia, the silent murderess-like girl, was so tired of sobbing that all she desired at that moment was a protective embrace. She reached for Toris, disregarding all the pain he caused her, just needing to be held. He blushed as he silently drew his arms around her small frame and she clasped her hands across his back. _She is so small_, he thought, holding her close enough to feel her heart beating in time to the slow whimpering into his shoulder. The crying sounds eventually faded into sleep, and Toris smiled and blew out the candle as he placed his free arm under her knees. He carried her up the enormous staircase into her room, placed her on the bed, and stood over her for a minute or two. After a minute of just gazing at her silent figure, he leant down and lightly grazed her pristinely white forehead with his lips. He swore to himself there that in the moonlight emerging from the dispersing storm, a quick flash of light pink filled her cheeks and her lips quivered into the shape of a slight smile.


	2. Two

~ Two ~

Toris woke up at dawn, still wearing a love-struck smile, in the large velvet chair facing Natalia's bed. She looked timid then, innocent almost, as her face flushed with the sun's rosy glimmer. Her off-white hair was tousled around her, and Toris noticed that she had not seemed to move for the whole night. She didn't even seem to be breathing, he noted, and fluttered to the bedside in terror. "Is she…dead?" He thought aloud. Natalia's eyes flew open and she stretched out her arms behind her, slightly yawning. "I suppose not." She responded quietly. He broke into a smile. She looked up at him and noticed the pink blush below his frightened eyes, wondering if he had always had cheeks tinted with the sweet color. His smile then faded back into concern and he sat on the edge of her bed. "Natalia", he barely got her name out without stuttering, "could…could you tell me why…you were crying last night?" The White Russian looked away and folded her arms across her chest, her eyes in their normal chilly neutrality. "I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have mentioned…"

"My brother does not love me. It is your fault." She narrowed her eyes and pointed her sharp manicured nail at the man in indictment. The horrified look of Toris' face softened her frozen core, and, however slowly, she dropped her arm and looked down. She drew a breath and looked him in the eye, seeing so much that she had never seen before that moment. She saw that he would waste away hours, days of his life to linger by her side; she saw that he would die for her. Her eyes opened a little wider than they ever have as she leaned towards him so their faces were inches apart. He knew her so well, just from his dreams, that he read her expression and placed his hand over his heart. "Miss Natalia" he said in a softly gallant voice, but with a sensitive expression, "I promise I am not like him…"

Their eyes locked in convention, and there, the unsaid responsibility of the young woman's protection passed on the Lithuanian. It was a simple matter, without emotion from Natalia's blank, freezing-white aura. A quiet thing. But Toris saw that her eyes were gleaming like dripping icicles. He forced himself to move and fetched a washcloth to cleanse the dry, cracked tears on her face.


	3. Three

~ Three ~

It was already midday when the White Princess finished combing her streaming hair, tying her bows and latching her garters. Her navy-blue Mary Janes clattered against the grand staircase, stained still with drops of hot wax and cold salt water. With haste Natalia, determined and set, made her way directly to her brother Ivan's study. She did not knock, or ask to come in, or even run her sharp fingernails up and down the wooden door, but with her boney hand snapped open the knob with a single gesture.

And there was her brother.

Her tall, handsome, icily sweet brother who was so much like her own self. His similar face protruded her in terror for his emotional well-being, but her blank stare and lack of an interrogative confrontation softened him after a moment. He sat back in his chair, and looked at her with, still, a glaze of fear in his eyes. "Oh! Sister," he stated, his Russian thin and almost pretty; behind the words, though, was a strange thing she'd never really noticed before. There was a sort of evil, a red glow in his eyes that pierced her. She knew what she had to say, then, without hesitation: "Brother. I am leaving."

A shower of relief sprinkled over Ivan's smooth features as he realized his tormentor, his beautiful but indefinitely evil parasite was _evicting herself. _Herself! He laughed to himself in delight as she turned around and faced the door. He saw the young woman's profile then as she twisted her body around so he could see one violet eye, glittering in salvation and with something tangibly lovely.

"And Toris is leaving as well." She threw the words at him in one last goodbye as she stepped out of the study, leaving him to feel the pang of loss. His closest friend! His most influential advisor! His favorite punching bag! Gone. The best of his life, gone with the worst in a single day. Ivan was physically unable to know exactly what to think; his already-slashed and torn mind faltered as he stared blankly, and he smiled then, a corrupted smirk, summoning his servant Raivis with a commanding tone. Ivan Braginski was seething. His eyes were dyed a purplish Bolshevik red.

Toris was in the kitchen, cleaning, when Natalia found him. He could not help but freeze where he was, drink her image in with admiration and, dare it be said, love, all the while his face burning up; he was seeing that pinkish red glow about her again when she walked toward him. He could scarcely believe it when she reached out and took the broom from his slightly shaking hands. The clatter of a wooden staff and bristles against the kitchen floor, after last night, did not frighten him. He simply smiled confusedly as she grunted, "Come with me, now" and marched him through the house by the burning hand, to her room. Her touch had strength in it, but was feathery like a swan's neck against his rough skin. Toris found himself then intoxicated by her snowy locks.

Locking the door behind them, Natalia got out her hard black suitcase and began throwing clothes into it with an excited fervor. Toris's eyes widened at the action. He racked his thoughts and fought for words, but when he found them, he left them to smolder behind his closed lips. It was only when Natalia left and returned with _his _suitcase that his surprise turned into pure bliss, a smile breaking across his face. He brought in a basket of his own clothes and started packing the folded uniforms alongside her.

He knew she would not explain unless he said something. "Where are we going?" was all he could think of to say. Her tempo increased as the fire in her soul ate away at her. She did not hear him over the roar of the flames. He asked again, a few minutes later, and no response. He stopped and looked at her. "Miss Natalia."

The red burning in her core ceased as her name was spoken through the Lithuanian's lips, touching his tongue as they made their way to her senses. She stopped. Her eyes were stained a bloodshot mix of inflammation and delicate lavender as they looked up at him from behind a glaze of overwhelming fear and sorrow. Toris would never let himself watch her cry again; he was too selfish, and it hurt him too much to let her suffer. He sprung to her and knelt as she sunk to the floor, her silent tears discoloring his golden-brown skin like snow on outstretched tree branches. He felt his warm heart pulse through his arms and into her as he sheltered her with his body. Natalia felt the life-giving flame, its warmth and its red glow, strike her cheeks as he saw in the reflection in his eyes the red tinge her face wore. The tears streamed from her without a whimper, Toris saying things that she could barely understand in her confusion, things like "let the tears come" and "I love you Miss Natalia." But the bloody flames still burned her heart, and in the fumes she couldn't make out the words. She only felt his voice and pressed herself closer into him and his candlelit soul.


	4. Four

~ Four ~

Natalia Arlovskaya cannot distinguish between the swollen red of a distraught weeping face and the nervous pink of a nearby fancy; she stood there in front of the white vanity in her room and looked at herself. Red. The blood swimming in her face, turning her fair beauty into blistering ugliness, she thought. Like stab wounds in snow. Natalia searched the mirror and found Toris sitting on her bedspread, looking at her, his scarred hands twisting in his lap. She examined there the red of his face; it was not the hurt of change or goodbye like hers. It was the pink of a lotus in the morning sun. It reminded her of some warm place she'd never been to, some sea coast she'd never seen, some field of gold she'd never run through, laughing, her fair skin slightly bronzing in the sun's sweet rays. She turned around, looked at him, and picked up her suitcase.

He picked up his, and they carried themselves out the giant door. Toris kept behind her, making sure her load was light enough for her delicate frame, disregarding or forgetting her otherworldly strength. They left, the two of them, settlers in a foreign world.

Natalia and Toris were in a white forest when night crashed, early as usual in the winter. Of course, though, it was always winter in Soviet Russia. They set Natalia's white patterned bedspread on the dusty earth, and Toris put a cauldron over the fire while Natalia left to bathe in the nearby stream.

Her lace-topped thigh-highs, apron, dress, and her bow lay on the bank while she knelt into the freezing river, her body, already used to the warm aura given off by her Lithuanian companion, shivering viciously. Natalia swept up the bitterly cold and let it fall over her skin and her thin eyelids and lips stung.

Toris, ever the gentleman, promised he would not allow himself to look upon the young virgin's uncovered skin, and averted his gaze as he replaced her clothes with the finest white towel he brought. An accidental flicker of his eyes, probably an involuntary hormonal response to standing before his undressed love, and he caught the slightest glimpse of her back.

The shining white of her back was, like his, slashed across with savage wounds.

He dashed back to camp and caught his breath, glad that he went unseen.

_Author's Note: In 1919, Belarus joined with Lithuania and formed the__Lithuanian-Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic__. OK, so what actually happened was that this was set up by the Soviet Government but lasted less than a year because of economic and social issues. And…well Belarus and Lithuania left the USSR at different times…but the point of this was more about the people, specifically the Lithuanian and Belorussian citizens of the USSR, realizing that they were victims of the Soviet Government, Ivan. There. Now on with the story!_


	5. Five

~ Five ~

Dripping wet, Belarus wandered back to her and Toris's little setup with her towel loosely draped about her frame and her damp hairbow precariously placed in her hair. Toris had their evening meal set out in small bowls, some kind of soup from the dying herbs and potatoes he brought from the Mansion. Natalia hurried and dressed in a white nightgown and sat beside the Lithuanian man to eat the small amount of food before her.

Not very long into the meal, the silence killing him, Toris put down his spoon and said to the Belorussian woman, "Natalia." She stopped short. "There is something you need to see."

"Ok…" she watched as he turned and unbuttoned his Lithuanian - _not Soviet _-military uniform revealing the tattered scars and deep red of things beneath his skin. Natalia gaped, her mouth hanging open as she grasped the air for words. "Toris…you, we have, the same –" She turned around and slipped the thin straps of her dress off of her shoulders, and the same scars, deep red and blunt like the skin broke with the slash of a pipe. He reached out and ran his fingers along the shapes and indentations in her back, and she relaxed with his touch. Even though she was turned away from him, he could still barely see the curve of her breast.

Natalia felt something then. Something quiet, and lovely. She turned around and looked him dead in the eyes. Her bare upper-body faced him, confusing him, but he couldn't bear to look away from her whole image; the whiteness that sparkled around her in a veil allured him into submission. She moved a little towards him, wondering, trying to decide whether to experiment with her feeling or not. Natalia, the beautiful White Russian with a silvery heart, inched forward and placed her smooth pink lips into his. The stunned Lithuanian froze with her cool touch, her frosty kiss in his own lips. After a moment he reacted and kissed her back, a little bit more affectionately, and laid his hands on the points of her waist as her breasts pressed into him. Their bodies made a national boundary, a thin contour that barely marked where she ended and he began. The two victims of Communist riots, of Russian occupation, kissed for an eternal moment. In the dusky, clouded moonlight, the White Russian woman seemed a heavenly bride.

When the Lithuanian, not wanting to taint her virginity, pulled away, Natalia fell into his embrace and slept until sunrise the next morning. Toris smiled and gently placed her limp arms into her dress and covered her, still lying on him, in a blanket. The warmth they had between the two of them lasted them through the wintry night.

_Please comment. _


	6. Six

~ Six ~

When the snowy ground shimmered with such shine that she could see the reflection of her pink cheeks in it, she loved him. Yes, yes, _yes, _she had said it in her dreams through the night; _yes _it is the Lithuanian, the protector. It was in the sweetness of his touch. It was in his promise to carry her, bride-style, all the way back to the hellish Soviet Mansion when she froze and sickened, which she did. At least hell would thaw her from her icy coffin.

Natalia that night found that being accustomed to the Siberian cold was not something to take for granted. The proximity she shared with Toris melted her, the numbness dripping and slithering from her like a stream. When the winds picked up and the snow fell in silvery buckets, the Belorussian felt it: the deathly white air eating away at her warm pink skin. Her fever manifested her soul: icy skin and a beautiful, frigid face like a stinging ice sculpture, and a warm body inside. The chills were only from the wind. Inside, she was warm.

Toris was shivering though, throughout her hot sweats. The coldness in his bones was out of fear as he watched her cough and the blood drip from those tender lips. In the pits of silence between her hacking fits, Toris fidgeted nervously, the crystals sealing the valves in his heart and he was positive the blood under his pinkish skin was fading into midnight blue.

That was when he knew he had no choice but one.

By the time night was settling, her knees were folded over one of Toris's arms and her back rested on the other. The footprints he made, the Lithuanian noticed, were barely deeper with the slight addition to his mass. He was carrying her, bride-style. But he was carrying her down, like the dead descending to the inferno, where her temperature would rage and her fever would ignite her mind in flames.

They reached the mansion just when Toris was absolutely positive that he only felt the silent heartbeat of death ringing against his skin from the angel he carried. The door was unlocked. Inside it was no warmer and there was only more darkness.

Toris brought the sleeping figure, whom he was careful to leave intact, down onto the antique sofa and removed his arms from beneath her only when the patterned flowers had complete grasp of her. Even the sickness that emanated from Natalia was beautiful to him. He covered her with a blanket and, though she laid dying before him in a heap of contagious pathogens, he grew so passionate for her even in that instant that he leant down and kissed her with a brush of his freezing lips. Perhaps it was in the half-belief, half-wish idea that the true-love's kiss would wake the poisoned princess; instead, he tasted only death. He choked on the flavor that was not his love's and on his tears, all the while running upstairs to fetch his brother for help.

He shook awake Eduard in a fury that knew no bounds. "She's…!" The young Estonian heard the words and rolled out of his bed into the sobs of his elder brother. "Natalia's dying! You must know something we can do for her-!"

Downstairs, the younger man's glasses glimmered as he took her pulse, listened to her breaths, and shook his head. Somewhere, a lone flute played a grieving _pavane_.

_Sorry for the month-long wait. I was the lead in a musical that is ~thankfully!~ over now. _

_Please keep reading…remember the story's not over yet!_

_Also, just an author's note: A pavane is a slow, waltzing piece of music. I'm referring here to Ravel's _Pavane for a Dead Princess. _Listen to it, it's beautiful. Oh and being a flautist myself means that I have to sneak that in somewhere _


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